


Green Badge

by SageDarkwoods



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Mobsterswitch, The Fuzz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-16
Updated: 2011-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-24 16:45:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SageDarkwoods/pseuds/SageDarkwoods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a mole in the department. You are certain of it. A mobsterswitch Felt fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Green Badge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Path](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Path/gifts).



> This is for Path, who poked me with the plot bunny, and it proceeded to chew my ankle until I wrote it. Thanks to lucky_spike for the original Mobsterswitch AU, and the fabulous authors and artists who have fleshed out the series.

> Be Captain Snowman.

You run a hand through your long hair, snagging it slightly. You almost never let your hair loose when you are working, but you have locked your office door and this case is frustrating. You know that the Twilight Scoundrels are behind the bank heist. It has all their earmarks. But key pieces of evidence have gone missing from the files. And the scorch marks on the side of the building have vanished, along with the photographic evidence that goes with it.

The ash from your cigarette holder drops a few inches from your pile of papers. It's why you'd taken to using one; when you get focused on paperwork, you neglect your cigarette ash. The evidence of that is scattered across the upper half of your desk. You scowl at it, and butt out what was left of the clove in the overflowing ashtray. The commissioner doesn't like you smoking in the office – he insists you shouldn't smoke at all – but still graciously provided you an ashtray. It's a good thing he likes you. Of course he would; you provide results. It's the reason you made Captain already, and you are already swiftly on your way to Inspector. All you need is to break this case.

There is a mole in the department. You are certain of it.

Four sharp, succinct knocks sound at your door. Scratch. He is the only one who knocks like that. Hell, he's the only one who knocks: it's why you lock your door all the time. He cannot see you this frazzled.

> Pull yourself together.

You hastily tie your hair in a knot at the top of your head and jam your hat on top on that. You blow the ash off the top of your desk. “Come in,” you call.

“I wish I could, my dear Captain, were the door not locked,” comes the smooth baritone.

You curse inwardly, and go to unlock the door. You paste on a small, polite smile. “My apologies, sir. Please come in.”

Commissioner Scratch steps into the cramped office, hands clasped firmly behind his back. “I won't take up much of your time, Captain, as I see you are well-immersed in your work.” He nods to the pile of papers and photographs sprawled haphazardly across the desk. “I believe this may be of interest to you.”

Instead of taking the seat across from you, he steps to the window on the far wall and peers through the dusty blinds. His expression, as usual, is unreadable. He takes a small breath before continuing. “There is a mole in the department. I'm certain you know that already, judging by the conclusions you've drawn on your desk.”

You walk to the middle of the room (which is admittedly five feet from the front of the room, and another five feet to the window), and watch him watching the city. The sun you know is close to setting, but it is impossible to tell through the cloud cover. The drizzle has not stopped, and it renders the city a dull grey. It suits it, you think uncharitably, as the morals around here are just as grey. “I have not narrowed it down yet, sir.”

“I have no doubt that you will come to a reasonable conclusion, Captain. Your work is impeccable, and your drive only surpasses that.” He turns to you, and his unreadable expression breaks a bit as a slight smile ghosts his lips. “It is the very reason you are Captain after only a few years with the force.” He always takes care not to mention age, which you appreciate. He was the one who hired you, and he has been Commissioner for as long as you can remember. He knows more than anyone here, and knows that some people have secrets they would rather keep secret. “You are an officer with a difference, Captain. I recognize talent and reward it as such.”

And occasionally he can be a smug patronizing bastard, handing out pats on the head like dog biscuits. You keep your polite expression and go back to the pile of papers, sorting through and finding the picture you are looking for. “The recent crime scene had scorch marks on the wall of the bank, which have recently disappeared,” you say, handing him the new picture you took this morning. “I was there that night. The bricks were burned.” You had been hoping to see that chalk symbol that keeps popping up in the city to firmly cement that it is the work of the Twilight Scoundrels, but there is no such twisted smile.

He nods, taking the photograph in hand. “This is the third such incident of evidence disappearing in the last two months. This one, however, is sloppy. Noticeably so. I would like you to handle this personally, Captain. I have a meeting tomorrow morning with the Mayor, and would like to give him some good news.”

You nod, standing up straighter. This had been your plan anyway, so official sanction just makes it easier. He walks back to the door, pausing before heading out. “One more thing, Captain. As I understand it, the Meddlesome Company is also investigating the official case. Perhaps you could consult with them.”

Your teeth are immediately on edge at the mention of the Company, as thoughts of Scout's sneer pop into your mind. The commissioner's casual request is really a demand to find out what they know, and that means you'll probably have to talk to the tiny shark in a hat. Maybe you'll get lucky and only have to deal with Dead-Eyed Detective; at least he is reasonable, if a bit cold. Instead, you smile. “Thank you, Commissioner. I'll get back to work,” you say, as he sees himself out.

Coffee. You need coffee now.

You head down to the lounge area, where the coffee pot is kept. Upon arriving, you notice Itchy draining the carafe into his shaking mug. You scowl at him and his mug. He gives you a quick smile, completely oblivious (and clearly high on caffeine), and starts to brew another pot.

> Calmly regard coworkers.

You lean against the wall and survey the officers in the lounge. Some were out on jobs: walking the beat, interviewing witnesses. There is Itchy, who could be fast enough to snag the photographs and clean up the wall without anyone noticing. His shaking fingers as he measures out too many scoops of coffee grinds in the filter give you pause. This brew will keep you up all night, you have no doubt.

Fin and Trace stand by a board covered with pictures and notes from another crime scene. The pieces are joined by different colours of string, and they are arguing back and forth whether the father of the dead girl was in fact sleeping with his secretary, or whether the secretary in question's husband had been in contact with the father through business. It's a possibility, but they are the type to remain focused on one thing at a time, and that case is proving hard to crack.

Eggs and Biscuits are having lunch in the corner. You dismiss them both as suspects: both are too incompetent to not have already been caught.

Crowbar walks in then, trailing a twitchy-looking Die. He seats him in a folding chair, where Die proceeds to clutch at the seat and the table edge, looking like he is about to bolt. Crowbar gives him a firm stare, and Die calms down some, settling on letting his eyes dart around the room. Crowbar walks up to Snowman and Itchy, grabbing his mug from the shelf. “Itch, that coffee ready yet?”

Itchy looks up from his intent staring at the carafe, and nods, looking for all the world like a bobble-head doll. Crowbar gives a world-weary sigh. “How's it going, Snowman?”

You glance sidelong at him. Lieutenant Crowbar is a good cop. He's on board with the same ideals, though is getting more visibly frustrated with the seeming ineffectiveness of the green badges on the criminal element in the city, notably the Twilight Scoundrels. He and his partner Die have been working the beat a while, but Crowbar seems to be holding up better with the daily grind, while Die seems to be slipping into some bad habits. “Just fine, Lieutenant,” you reply. “Busy as always.”

Crowbar snorts, and gestures to his partner. “Tell me about it. Gotta loved the forced breaks.” Die is now leaning with his chin on the table in front of him, half-crouching on the chair. “There was an accident in the evidence locker,” he gives as explanation, and stops at that.

Maybe Die, you think, if Crowbar were not with him constantly. There are still a number of coworkers to sift through, but the day is over for you. At least, officially.

You snag a to-go cup and take the carafe forcibly from Itchy, who looks like he is about to drink from it straight. This will last you until you get back to your apartment and change.

The walk in the drizzle is never pleasant, but the thoughts in your head distract you enough that you barely notice. Once inside, you triple-lock your door and make sure the blinds are still closed. You reach back in your closet, pushing the button you keep hidden. The secret compartment swings open and reveals your evening wardrobe. You peel yourself out of the sodden uniform and toss it on the nearby chair to dry. You untie your hair from its knot, waves of black tumbling down your back. You pull on the tight black outfit, streamlined to not catch on anything in the sometimes too-sharp city. The green badge is sometimes not enough to get answers in this city. Sometimes, you have to go above and beyond the call of duty, as the call of duty is rather short-range.

> Be Lady S.

You smile and face the night. Time to get some answers.


End file.
